thinking of old, retired!simon riley who hangs out pubs in his free time. he’s a tank of muscle, with a soft layer of fat over it all. he’s got the peak dad bod, and he’s a bit tanner than he was from working in his back garden. his tattoos are lining his body and he is scrumptious.
and he meets you. young little thing, sweetest bird he’s ever seen. shining, soft grins and plump, curvy edges.
he nearly drops to his knees to pray for you to grace him with your presence when you do it on your own volition. he forgot he was even playing blackball, the cue still held tightly in his hand. he was just practicing, just a hobby.
“mm, can ye teach me how to play?” you ask, and you’ve got a thicker accent than he does. he drinks it up, with a straw and all. he nods, handing you a freshly chalked cue.
you struggle enough to learn the mechanics for him to decide to stand behind you, front pressed to your back as he bends you over with his body weight — one hand on your waist and the other steadying your cue as you aim to break.
fuck. he’s so hot, burning even through your skimpy dress. his voice rumbles in your ear,
“c’mon, birdie, just steady y’rself. even out yer breathin’.” he instructed, as patient as ever.
you beat him when you guys actually started playing! yay! and then… you decided to make a silly little bet.
“if you can beat me,” you whispered in his ear, liquid temptation mixed with the way you were pulling him by his shirt collar down to your level — you knew he could easily beat you — “i’ll go home with you.”
Single Dad!Simon Riley whose daughter is so sweet.
You, a sweet and humble hairdresser in your salon which you’ve bought and built from the ground yourself, having a walk-in appointment with a 6’4” hulking man, and his most precious angel. A black surgical mask covering his jaw, mouth and nose.
His little angel, who you learn to be Amelia, climbs into your chair with the cutest grunts of struggle and eventually a triumphant sigh. Her dad, in his effortlessly silky, gruff voice, explains that her hair is now down to her knees practically and he needs help. Her mother left when she was young and he’s only ever had one brother.
You chuckle softly and nod, and his daughter looks up at you after you explain that you’ll be trimming her gorgeous hair and demonstrating some simple braiding techniques to her father, and in the tiniest, cutest little Londoner accent:
“Thank you for helping my Daddy.” You nearly burst into tears at her shining hazel eyes and her big, toothy smile. You nod and begin sectioning her hair after placing a pink apron over her front. She beams to her Dad, “Look! She gave me pink!” He laughs and his eyes shine with pride. She’s so good at communicating, even though she barely looks five. She’s so adorably tiny, too.
At the end of the appointment, Simon has learned three different braid styles. He’s a natural, you assure him. You curl his daughter’s hair just before she leaves, and she does a little dance around the place in her princess dress. Her dad picks her up, and he smiles at you. Thanking you in that knee-weakening voice of his. He promises he’ll be back with any hair concerns, and he even tips you extra.
Before he leaves, his daughter points at you and asks if he can take you home. He responds, without missing a damn beat:
“Mm, only if she wants to come home with us.” He winks at you for good measure.
My uterus was bubbling with excitement at the publication of OldeRetired!Simon. We would love a second part!! 😍🫶🫶🖐️
ask and you shall receive >:] i’m so normal about him… cw) smut…
Being young, you honestly hadn’t had much experience with guys. Casual hookups were okay, but it was usually you and your little buzzing friend against the world most nights.
Until Simon. You met him in a bar, unsuspecting at first. Just wanting to flirt up an older man, see what you got yourself into. Innocuous enough.
Until he gets you home.
Thick fucking arms wrapped around your thighs, pinning your cunt to his tongue. He is lapping at you like he has been starved of this nectar. Like he was going to die the next moment he lived without it. Soft circle-8s made with him tongue, before he licked a fat stripe from hole to clit.
He did this until you were a mess, laughing and giggling drunkenly on the sensations he brought you. ‘S’good,’ you muttered softly, causing Simon to chuckle as he climbed up your body, finally deeming you ready.
He kissed along your chest, collarbone and your jaw, spewing praise in your ear before he even did anything.
“Mm, so fuckin’ good f’me.”
“Beautiful sight, you are.”
And his words were so patient, even as he grunted and panted in your ear.
“Squeeze me, luv, ‘attagirl,”
“Fuck, birdie, how do I last when you look at me like ‘at?”
Trusting your promise that you were on birth control, he finished with spasming hips and a face contorted into pleasure. He rolled over next to you, positively ruined.
Lucky for him, he ruined other men indefinitely.
Not like he was going to let you leave anyways, birdie. You made a bet. And he won. He got to take you home.
thinking about bf!simon who loves gaming. mario kart, skyrim, fallout, halo, etcetera. and his sweet little dove girlfriend!reader who loves knitting and crocheting. she has baskets of yarn and years’ worth of old needles she’s collected over her decade long hobby. she’s constantly doing it, but she loves doing it most while her and simon are relaxing in the living room.
and recently, simon has gotten into dark souls. so, here he is with his little dove, his fists shaking as he grips the controller and his jaw clenches as the ‘YOU DIED’ screen taunts him again. his baby doesn’t even notice, humming to the music she’s playing from her phone on the side table — and crocheting simon another jumper for their upcoming winter. simon is two in-game deaths away from real-life suicide attempt and attempted arson on his own console. but his dove catches his eye and pokes her tongue out at him, her way of a greeting. he’s still fuming when she speaks up.
“isn’t it so nice to relax like this together?”
relax?! how are you relaxing?! simon is actually fighting for his life, but he nods, his fists still shaking as his controller lets out a noise in protest.
“yes, dove. so relaxing.” he dies again.
‘YOU DIED.’
“oh, no, baby! it’s okay! second times a charm!” she comforts, kissing his cheek as she sees the death screen for the first time.
BRING JAGUAR!GHOST BACK PLEASE HE IS LIKE MY CRACK
little bit of jaguar!ghost x fem rabbit!reader to soothe your withdrawals <3 (short story!)
a bit smutty? hehe sorry…
Simon’s tail whipped sharply behind him as he sat, a methodical thump persistent against the fresh leather. His stare was penetrating, a hole burning through your abdomen — but you somehow didn’t notice.
Well, it wasn’t a secret why you didn’t notice. You were tipsy, on top of already being naturally ditzy, and just swaying to the thumping beat in the club.
The club being the new Hybrid Friendly! club in town. “Club de Primal” written in neon cursive lettering on the front of the building, fancy neon decorations and a ridiculously stocked bar. Any alcohol, you name it. And you probably did, by the way you were drunkenly swaying to the beat.
Captain ‘Bear’ Price sat in the booth, nursing a whiskey and eyeing any suspicious patrons, like the true father he is. Sergeant ‘Wolf’ MacTavish dancing it up on the floor, accidentally whacking innocent bystanders with his wiry tail. Sergeant ‘Crow’ Garrick dancing sensually with some cat hybrid (not historically a great mix, but alright), and Lieutenant ‘Jaguar’ Riley — eyeing you down. A sweet little rabbit thing with shining eyes and an unstoppable little tail.
Eventually, Simon was sick of it. He got up, against his better judgement, and stalked over to you. You were swaying on your feet, singing along to the EDM (somehow? how do you sing to that?). You looked up at Simon when you felt his chest pressed against your entire side, eyes wide. Like a little doe in headlights.
Your ears drooped behind your head, twitching at the new wall against your side.
“C’mon,” Simon grumbles out, holding out a hand for yours. You take a moment to observe him first; his yellow eyes, the soft jaguar pattern adorning his skin and those teeth. You think of kissing him and you nearly piss yourself, because how do you kiss someone with those teeth without losing your tongue?!
But, you grab his hand anyway and he leads you to an open spot on the dance floor. The song changes to something a bit slower and his hands find your front, sprawled over your stomach and the front of your thigh. He feels your happily thumping tail against his thigh and he swears he’s died and gone to Heaven.
“Sweet little thing,” he whispers in your ear, and your breath picks up. He sounds like he wants to eat you whole, and why is it kind of hot? One hand finds your jaw, and one finds the hem of your dress. He leans down to press a kiss to your lips, and you turn around.
All your senses are him. It’s no longer flashing lights, it’s his silhouette. No longer thumping music, but the thumping of his heartbeat. No longer the condensation of your cocktail, but his fitting t-shirt gripped into your palms. No longer a fruity rum, but his tongue pressing down on yours — the taste of whiskey and a past cigarette cutting through your tastebuds. No longer the smell of spilt alcohol and sweaty bodies, but a cologne with hits of bourbon and sandalwood. Fuck, he’s hot.
Somehow, he crowds you into a janitor’s closet by the bathrooms, dressed hiked up to your waist. He’s pawing at your thighs and devouring your mouth with his, his breaths rough and heavy.
He pulls away, and he nearly melts at the sight of you. Flushed face, drool peaking from the corner of your mouth and your blown pupils. You’re so sweet looking.
But he must calm down.
“Mm, come home with me,” he begs, trying to fix your dress and get you back on your feet. Your womanhood tells you to be cautious, to take a second and sober up. But the way he empties his pockets, his wallet and even shows you his keys lessen your anxieties. He’s truly just begging to sleep with you.
“Hm, why not?” You play it off, still gripping at his shirt. He chuckles roughly because he knows a sweet thing like you is only playing that game temporarily. You’ll come apart on his tongue, and gaze up at him with fucked-out eyes before you drift off into sleep.
He kisses your temple and leads you out of the club, helping you into his car and reveling in the fact that you even came home with him. He knows that eventually you’ll actually get to know him one day and then he might not have you forever, but he’ll take tonight by the collar if it’s all he’ll get.
smutty at the end; mentions of nudity and wanking; brief descriptions of war and gore; brief mentions of amputation; not proofread
he knows no place of worship like the temple of your body.
Flashing lights breed a violent headache.
Rough, wet fauna blooming beneath him.
A tight grip on his ribs; a vice waiting to crush him whole. No full breath can be taken, this he knows. But it’s no different than normal. He hasn’t taken a full breath since he was ripped from the warmth of the womb — wailing in agony. Scrubbed of blood and wrapped in scratchy material.
Johnny is saying something. Pressing into Simon’s chest with the weight of a thousand men, and this is when Simon summons the strength to push him off. Simon’s body yanks itself sideways and Simon throws up more blood than he knows what to do with.
Johnny shakes him, provoking more blood and bile up Simon’s throat and Simon refuses to go. Refuses to lean into Johnny’s desperate pull.
Because Simon knows what comes after this moment. Simon will sink into himself, and he will cough up blood until his lungs go with it and he will die. His flesh will melt off the bone and he’ll be one with the Earth again. Feeding maggots. The only good thing Simon has ever done.
Johnny’s chest is pumping, aching with an intense fire that doesn’t falter. Johnny knows he has only two options. He will go with Simon, and cross that damned threshold, or he will drag Simon back into the land of the living with him.
He decides on the latter, and he wraps Simon in shaking arms. Simon wants to fight, to thrash and beg Johnny just to let him die. Not to fight Fate, who is holding on so tightly to Simon. But he’s too tired.
He blacks out, hoping it is the last time he ever closes his eyes.
{*}
Simon awakes to scratchy cotton, like he has just been born again. There is an incessant beeping that he cannot unfocus on, and the lights are too harsh. Too bright. He wants to grab the nurse and beg her to inject some toxic into his IV, convince her that him being alive right now is a fluke and she doesn’t need to waste her resources.
But he doesn’t. He just clears his throat, startling the tired little nurse. Guilt gnaws at his stomach, like it always has, and he just turns away. He knows it’s coincidence that he scared her. That him clearing his throat was not the main factor in this. It’s the exhaustion that burrows in her bones, but his stomach churns anyway. It builds onto a lifelong insecurity. That he is too loud, too big, too scary, too harsh, eats too much, and —
“Simon,” Johnny says, jumping out of the armchair Simon didn’t even clock yet and it’s Simon turn to be startled. His voice gets caught in his throat because Johnny’s hair is tousled, and his shirt is sideways — exposing soft collarbone.
“Simon.” Johnny says again, touching Simon now. Firm hands on Simon’s scarred skin, and concerned baby blues lighting up Simon’s soul.
“What?” Simon grunts out, coughing again. There is a fire that burns below his skin, like red ants gnawing at his nervous system.
Johnny just stares. Observing Simon like he’s trying to discern if this is a doppelgänger or not.
“Yer awake.” Johnny breathes out, grateful. Simon nods.
“Unfortunately,” he chuffs. Johnny has to resist smacking some sense into Simon and instead sighs, sinking his weight into the edge of the bed.
Johnny looks between Simon and something else in the distance for a few moments.
“Lift the blanket, Simon,” Johnny says cryptically. His voice is flat. Johnny’s voice has never been that even. Simon’s heart sinks before he even knows what’s under the blanket. But he lifts it anyway, and his breath escapes his lungs.
No, it is ripped from his lungs. Like someone has shoved a vacuum past his uvula. Simon’s fucking left leg ends after his knee. It’s gone. His hands start shaking.
Little does Simon know, this tremor will rarely ever falter. It’s something that will stick to him like feathers over molasses. A sick reminder in the few limbs he is left with of the one he lost.
Simon doesn’t scream. Not since his voice dropped. He hasn’t cried since he stopped using diapers. He has been silent up until this point. A fearful scream rips from his chest, and Johnny acts quickly, muffling the sound in his chest.
Johnny is gripping Simon so hard there are soft little red marks, and Simon is panicking. Because he didn’t make it through this unscathed that he thought he would. Simon is even lesser of himself now, a shell with undeniable cracks.
Even the worst version of himself is not good enough.
{*}
Simon doesn’t truly wake up until he’s sitting in Price’s office, paperwork ahead of him — damning him to a boring fate of being some worthless veteran mooching off the government because he wasn’t careful enough.
Simon’s new prosthetic feels like a stilt. Like a replacement rather than an extension of himself. Chunky metal and more scratchy material underneath. He knows that it will grow on him with time, it has to, but he still gets a burn in his throat at the thought. Tightness rigged by bottled emotion.
Provided housing, alternative projects and disability pay are all buzzwords that don’t even catch Simon’s attention. Some glorified fucking speech Price was forced to memorize when he was promoted to Capt.
Simon yanks the pen away, signing his future away like he has any choice. But he knows he doesn’t. And this contract is forged in blood. Signed in blood.
Johnny takes the next morning to drive Simon to his new flat, a quaint (nasty) little place with an open floor plan (unfurnished), and an eccentric (outdated) design in the kitchen. Johnny winces at the sight of it, and he catches Simon breaking a little bit more.
One of the TF141’s most celebrated veterans risking his life. And this is what he gets in return? Simon oughta stage a coup, Johnny thinks.
But Simon doesn’t. Simon just sets his bag down by the door, takes off his shoes, and sinks down the wall. Johnny does the same, and they just sit together for a while. If Simon’s hit rock bottom, Johnny is at least on his way down.
{*}
The weeks following that are monotonous. Simon ordering furniture and building it. Eating dinner. Washing dishes. Taking walks to ease into his new prosthetic. All things he wishes he didn’t have to be doing. But he does them anyway. Because this is his life now.
Sometime in the monotonous wave of inhaling and exhaling, Simon finds himself in the crafts section of the department store. Looking at canvases and cardstock and oil pastels and charcoal and clay. Air-dry. Well, isn’t that clever, he thinks.
His glasses are on the tip of his nose and his right knee keeps giving out even though he’s just standing there and his hands are shaking and sweaty that he swears he has aged three lifetimes since he was discharged. Idle hands are the devils plaything, he knows this. But his hands are so shaky, he has no choice but to idle. He has nothing to carve into or nothing to sketch. No one to help, no one to hold. Wait.
Simon has an epiphany. Like an earthquake, it is some subtle shifting in his mind before all Hell breaks loose. He will be thirty-seven this year. And he has no one. He was born in this world alone, and he will die all the same.
Somewhere in this time where his brain and heart are stuck in limbo, he buys the clay. Because it’s easy. Because it’s convenient. And the charcoal because it reminds him of gunpowder. And some paper with a rough surface because the old lady at the store said it would do well with charcoal.
And Simon starts out slow. Sketching apples, and the telly remote and his glass of scotch. And throughout this journey, where he tapes his drawings to the walls of his bedroom like a madman, he realizes his hands have stopped shaking. The phantom pain that kept him tied up in bed has tapered off into something manageable and there is a single tear, now. A tear of euphoric triumph that he used to only feel in battle. A soft blooming of the withered rose that was his heart, now alive and beating.
This clay, this stick of charcoal. It stains his hands and rearranges his mind.
He starts listening to music again, sculpting some sort of something that doesn’t really look like anything. And it makes him laugh.
It makes him fucking laugh.
{*}
But the high of the joy mellows out again. Because Simon has sculpted enough apples and poor man’s bowls for a lifetime. And he has drawn enough reference photos on the Internet for a few more of them.
He needs a challenge. A living, breathing challenge.
So he posts an ad. On a Facebook group made for people living in his area. Usually used for selling furniture locally or announcing new corner shops opening, but Simon posts an ad.
Intermediate Sculptor and Charcoal Artist. Model needed. 21+.
Suspicious. Strange. Unnerving. Off-putting. All words that cross your mind as you read over the ad, the supposed address only a block and a half from your flat.
But why do you want to go anyway?
{*}
Simon answers the door. You have your headshots in hand, the ones you had to rush to get taken because he just assumed you had some lying around. A pretty little college bird, is all he knows about you. Plush, barely twenty-two and a smart girl. He stares at you, unblinking and unmoving and you’re thinking he’s regretting his choice.
No. He’s just thinking about bottling you up and setting you on his shelf because you’re the single most divine piece of art he’s ever seen in his life.
He has seen flashes of God in the battlefield, flashes of angles carrying him up in a chariot (and dropping him off by the escalator that only leads down) and yet he sees you and you top all of that.
A yearning burrows deep into his bones, beneath layers of scarred skin and worn muscle. A yearning to draw you in your purest form, wings and halo and all.
“Simon?” You speak up, soft as a kitten’s fur. And he’s melting. Into the floor and his pants.
“C’mere,” he says after a moment, beckoning you into the flat. Immediately, you can tell that Simon is going to do you justice in his art. His hands are covered in dried clay, and there’s charcoal somehow on the back of his neck. And his various paintings and sketches are taped to the wall, the improvement clear over the months. There is a single shelf in the entire flat, and it’s holding all his little clay creations.
“Mm, sit on the stool,” he says gruffly, clearly meaning business. Little did you know, it took all of his courage to speak those words to you. The faster he got this done, the faster you would leave, and the faster he could wank.
I mean, sure, he saw your profile picture. But why were you so … gorgeous? You shucked off your jacket, tossing it on his couch and sitting on the wooden stool.
Your stomach rolled over itself so sweetly, and your thighs fattened as you sat. Simon was white-knuckling his charcoal stick to maintain some kind of composure. Any military type torture training couldn’t’ve prepared Simon for this.
One thing was true, though, you were his new muse.
{*}
Now that Simon knew you, you were all he drew. Photos of you sitting, photos of you smiling or laughing or crying or reading on his couch. Even a few shameful drawings that he would hide away in case you surprised him at his flat.
You had no clue. You just thought he was a gruff, silent artist who liked the way he got to draw you. And honestly? You thought he was hot. The whole silent, brooding thing? And the tattoos lining his body? Mhm. Yes.
{*}
You guys got closer over time. A type of strange closeness festering between you two like a sickness waiting to be shared and spread. You’d come by his flat after a hard day at work or while you had to study for something big for college. Share a drink and sleep on his couch to escape your parents’ nagging.
Simon tells you about all of his tattoos, and why he started doing what he does. And you open up about your body image issues. Simon is surprised about this, because how can you be ashamed of this? He grabs your hip for a little emphasis.
You giggle because it tickles and he leans in further, babbling about how beautiful you are and you barely even notice all the sweet things he’s saying.
“Mm, pretty bird,”
“So sweet I need better dental insurance,”
“Get lost in your eyes, dovie,”
“Can’t do this body justice with just some charcoal,”
You stop laughing and then realize. You’re so close. You’re practically breathing air directly from his mouth. You lean in further, wanting to close this newfound distance (or the lack thereof) but he interrupts you.
“I want to sketch you nude.” He says abruptly, and you blanch.
Nude?
“Why?” You breathe out, eyes searching his face for some kind of clue of anything. His chest is rising and falling softly, and his hand is burning a hole through your shirt as it rests on your waist.
“I told you, birdie,” he starts, his grip tightening for a moment for emphasis. “Can’t never do this body justice, I know, but I especially can’t under all these layers.” He’s so earnest that the request loses some of its shock.
There is a genuine emotion in his honey-colored eyes. He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he asked, and something in his body tells you he’s pleading. He feels like three score years and then some pass before you answer.
“Okay.” You say. He nods.
{*}
You show up a week later, freshly shaven everywhere and rocking on your feet. It’s almost golden hour, per Simon’s request. He beckons you in like normal. But what isn’t normal is him leading you to his bedroom after that.
But you follow, breeze wafting up the sundress you’ve gone commando under.
His bedroom is clean. A mattress with a simple bed frame lifting it off the ground, some dark grey sheets and a large, elegant dresser made of dark wood.
There’s a large window overlooking the city below, and the sun sits on the brink of horizon now, sky turning a pastel yellow.
“Losing daylight, princess,” he raises an eyebrow at you. Because ever since you said ‘yes,’ to this, he’s gotten so cocky. So much more comfortable in the friendship than before. You roll your eyes and shrug.
It’s going to happen regardless, you think. So you unzip the dress after slipping off your little shoes, and let it drop to the floor. Simon’s face is stone as he observes your naked body.
“Lay down, dovie,” he nods to his bed, clad in a dark grey sheet. It’s in front of the window, just like he planned. You lay down on the bed, and he walks over to help you pose.
A hand in the back of your knee to lift your leg, a hand at the bottom of your spine to arch your back, a hand adjusting your arm to tangle your hand in your hair.
He steps back to admire the new pose, and he nods. “Beautiful,” he assures you, and sits down behind an easel to get to work. Unlike his usual sketchbook, he got a larger piece of paper specially for this occasion.
He sketches your silhouette in the window. Soft pudge resting under your chest. Thighs sagging deliciously due to gravity. Simon fucking drinks it up. Like water to a man thirsting.
He takes his time, too, like a cheeky prick. Anatomy that he’s usually proud to admit he’s mastered connecting is now so complicated and just not right somehow.
Eventually, after the second or third pose, he walks over to you with a different kind of energy. His usual sketchbook in hand like he’s already run out of room on the XL piece of paper he attached to the easel.
He did.
“Sit up, gorgeous,” he gruffs out, arms bruised with charcoal and hands stained by hours of blending. The sun has long disappeared from the sky, but Simon turned on a lamp nearby. No worries, birdie, we still got light. Ain’t the 1800s.
You oblige, sitting up and stretching softly. Simon takes a mental picture of that for later reference and gets back to the task at hand. He kneels down in front of you, setting his notebook aside.
He looks up at you, honey eyes searching yours. When he finds no signs of hesitance anymore, he opens your knees. Exposing your sweet cunt.
You swear he makes a noise before going back to business. You feel the heat of the blush on your face seeping in, and you search his face wildly.
“Artists’ eye,” is all he says as he traces your cunt onto paper. Charcoal stains your inner and back thighs from him trying to get all the angles he’s wanting, and you eventually just become pliant.
Once he’s done, he hands you your dress with his hand gloved by his shirt. You nod and slip back into it, making no effort to wash off the charcoal where it stains your skin between your legs.
You’re rocking on your feet again, considering.
“I want your help with an assignment.” You explain. Simon turns to you, eyebrows knitted in confusion. He gestures for you to continue.
“My professor. She wants us to write an essay on the most impactful relationship we’ve ever had. And I want to write about you,” he’s still, unmoving. You’re not even sure if he’s breathing. “You’ve helped me transform the image I used to have of my body. I wore a crop-top the other day. Do you know how insane that is for me?”
He nods. Because of course he knows. There is nothing about you Simon doesn’t know. Nothing about you he doesn’t understand.
“You’ve changed my view of myself. And that’s pretty fucking impactful,” you admit, voice soft with emotion. Simon nods wordlessly, giving his permission. You smile and hug him, mumbling a soft ‘thank you’.
“I love you.” He says, and you blanch. Now you’re not breathing. You pull away.
“What?” You ask, afraid. No, no, no! Why does he love you? You’re just his model. Before you know the ceiling from the floor, you’re bolting.
{*}
It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen Simon. The essay is two, long long paragraphs finished. And you’re starting to realize something.
You love Simon. Nobody writes this kind of passionate essay about someone they feel casually about. You write about feeling like his only object of desire. Who the hell says that?
It’s nearly 2am when you slam your laptop shut, grab your keys and make your way to his flat. He opens the door, half-naked and covered in more ink or paint or something that indicates he definitely wasn’t sleeping.
“Simon,” you breathe out, your chest heaving. “I love you too. I didn’t realize then because I was scared of this becoming more than just me being your model. Or your pose reference. But—”
“It’s been more than that for a while, dove.” He interrupts you, and your brow furrows.
“What?” He drags you into the flat, looking down at you.
“Ever since I’ve met you, you have been my muse. Hell, it goes beyond that, dove. You’re my … my God. I stay up for hours makin’ photos of you just to try and get it right and I never can. I can never get this body right, dove,” he breathes out. “And fuck, I’ll try for the rest of my life if I’ve got’a. If you’d ’ave me. But I don’t know if a thousand years would work, doll. Don’t know if I could ever do you justice. Every fuckin’ freckle and roll and curve, shit, doll, what do I got’a do for it?”
You’re still. Unmoving. Feet planted on the ground firmly.
You speak a soft whisper of something you don’t even comprehend, and before you can think, Simon has you on your back again.
Back in his bed, naked as the day you were born again. Worshipping those folds with a delicate tongue, holding you firmly down by your hips.
“Fuck, got’a make a statue of you, luv,” he grunts between starved licks to slick skin. “Put you in the middle of the fuckin’ country, luv. In every museum. Got’a let everyone see you.” He moans, rutting against the bed just from eating you out.
Simon doesn’t know much. Except that the knee he has left is aching from this angle, and that his hands are shaking from him unintentionally edging himself, but he does know that you’re stuck here.
Etched in the paper taped to his walls, and etched into the indents of his heart.
okay so i had a idea for the third part of the potential series you have going. i’m thinking she (im gonna call the reader she this entire time fyi) tries to call him, and accidentally it’s facetime, she doesn’t know. i don’t really know what happens after that but i would like to think she has her airpods in and she walked away from her phone just walking around her house, or has it propped up so ghost can see her but she’s just walking in circles maybe jumping when he says something about her appearance, then him seeing her all giddy.
THATS MY RANT THATS ALL FROM ME BYYEEEEE LOVE YOU 💋💋
hehe hi babydoll i love you too <3
Simon’s sitting at his desk, you’re babysitting Amelia and he is really contemplating staging a coup just so he can get the hell off base. But he doesn’t, against his better judgement.
But, like a lighthouse shining on a thrashing sea, you FaceTime Simon. He’s never done that type of thing before, but he strips himself of his mask, fixes his hair and sets his phone against his metal water bottle (that is well beyond its wear).
“Hi, honey!” You beam, only your face visible as you energetically search your kitchen with somewhere to put your phone up. You decide against the backsplash is good enough, and now Simon has a view of you holding Amelia. Even though he is so mean and insists that Amelia doesn’t need to be carried since she’s running and walking just fine. How dare he.
“Hi, luv,” he chuckles gruffly, waving to an ecstatic Amelia. She’s bouncing on your hip and singing something like a song. He’s smiling ear to ear (for the first time in his life), and you’re going on and on about how lovely Amelia has been today.
“She helped me make breakfast! Even held my coffee cup while I did the dishes! Didn’t you, baby?” And Amelia is nodding, babbling about how strong she is because the cup was sooo heavy. Simon is laughing and encouraging her. She must be stronger than him now!
Amelia is dancing and singing and you’re spinning her in circles and Simon is so entranced because God, how did you fall into his lap?
An angel in his world. Fallen from the Heavens right into his lap. Figuratively, and literally. (<- ya nasty)
“Mm, sweet Mama,” he says quietly without thinking twice. You stop twirling, Amelia is so dizzy and giggly she doesn’t even notice, and stare at your phone. Your face is flushed before you can even say your full name and Simon is laughing at you. He’s laughing at you!
“What, baby?” He teases you, toeing a line that he definitely should not be toeing. You give him a glare for his teasing tone before letting Amelia run off, whispering something dirty into the microphone, hanging up, and tossing your phone away.
Simon thought he was mental. Coming back to his flat after the most excruciating (and literally career-ending) mission of his life, just to start hearing noises? And for things to randomly go flying off shelves? Simon was sure his head was done in. He’d hit it a little too hard and now he’s reaping what he sowed.
But no! Unbeknownst to Simon, it was you! You’d passed away in 1813 due to a bad, bad case of consumption just before marriage. (Modern-day TB). Floating around in a baby blue day-gown, silk gloves and your hair eternally tied into a curled updo. You weren’t harmful, no, quite the contrary. You were just trying to navigate the new space where your castle had once been.
Blank white walls, tall windows and minimal design was sacrilege. Where is the stained glass?! Why is there no photo of the King at every corner? This space was weird. Knocking glasses into the floor and stepping where the creaks were had to be a part of the acclimation process.
Now, problem is, Simon hadn’t seen you. You saw Simon. ‘Oh, he has to be the head of this house. He must have some answers,’ you thought.
Except, you freaked him the fuck out. All he felt were cold, subtle grazes on his arm and the hairs on his neck standing up. But eventually, the more he started to understand? The more he saw you.
A glimpse of a woman’s perfume bottle in the corner of his eye, only for him to blink and it disappear. The feeling of silks against his back leg in bed when his sheets are nothing of the sort.
And then eventually, one night after the pub, it was you. In the flesh. Well, not really. He was drunk, stumbling into his flat by the skin of his teeth. It started with your voice, a soft giggle in empty air.
“Too much gin, my Lord?” You observed him, a soft silhouette of you on the couch. Proof of your existence in the couch cushion, a shape forming under your weight. A book was open in your hands. Some book on a war you didn’t even live to see.
“The fuck?” Simon sobers quickly, like he’s just been shot. You look appalled, either because of the word he used — or the fact that you haven’t learned that word yet.
“My Lord,” you scold him, hand clutched on your ghastly pearls. “Wretched speak in our castle? Hm,” a disapproving hum slips from your lips, and Simon is … disappointed in himself. And then he realizes he is talking to a ghost.
Ghost talking with a ghost. Very funny, universe.
“Who are you?” He orders, slipping off his shoes. Despite his voice’s aggressive tone, he is cautious in approaching you. Like you will vanish at the sight of barred teeth.
“Perhaps I am your wife. I haven’t got an idea our relations.” You shrugged, setting the book aside. “What a fantastical story,” you laugh softly. It has a soft echo to it, as if you’re in a cave. “Despite it being fictitious, it is very enthralling.” You tap the book, getting up and floating past him.
Floating through him. Shivers scale up and down his body and he feels as though he’s just… well, he feels as though he’s floating in post-pleasure bliss. He gawks at you, because how dare you walk through him?!
“What, my Lord?” You ask, trying your best to open the fridge. You haven’t quite grasped the concept yet. Simon just waves a hand, mumbles something vaguely vulgar and walks to his room. This is tomorrow’s problem.
Tomorrow comes with you — translucent and yet so fucking beautiful — sat on the side of his bed with tea and a wet rag. “My Lord, you are burning like a thousand suns. Your face is the color of a ripe tomato,” you tsk again, pressing the rag to his head and the rim of the teacup to his lips, urging him to drink.
It goes on like this for a while, you materializing when Simon gets home and floating around the house helping him with things. He finally gets to hold you one night, when you are taking some strange kind of ghost-nap, and you have your guard down. Shifting you into his arms, he is mesmerized by the way you feel. Your entire skin is bliss, silky texture and a cooling sensation.
You awake with a gloved hand on his chest, embarrassed with yourself because this man is the head of this house! Surely his wife will come and find you two.
“No,” he assures you, playing with the fabric of your paranormal gown, “I have found my wife.”
